


The Front Desk Soldier

by StuckySituation



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: "if something is not explicitly forbidden then it's permitted", Cat Videos, Competent Winter Soldier, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Customer Service & Tech Support, Identity Porn, M/M, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Oblivious Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Secret Identity, Spy Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers as SHIELD spy, The Asset - Freeform, Undercover Missions, Willful Winter Soldier, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-10-28 02:46:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17779109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StuckySituation/pseuds/StuckySituation
Summary: HYDRA is a big, evil organization, and one thing that all big, evil organizations love?Free, unpaid workers.No better way to keep the costs down.So, for the last seventy years, the Asset has had a secondary purpose between its missions: work 20/7 in whichever base it was located at the time in the most nightmarish, unwanted, and demanding jobs:the Customer Service.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, uh, while I was writing stuff for another fic yesterday, which was all _Serious Business Angst,_ I was working with kind of, uh, little sleep under my belt, so when I wrote down the line _“It’s simply more efficient to find a use for it between the missions as well.“_ referring to the Winter Soldier training the Red Room girls... well, this image of HYDRA making poor, _poor_ Asset work in their canteen between missions sprung up in my mind and I spent five minutes laughing in sleep deprived hysterics at that before I was able to get back to continuing the Serious Business Angst.
> 
> But now it’s Valentine’s Day, and I’m still sleep deprived and wanted to write something cracky, so here you go, short and silly and cracky Shrinkyclinks drabble to celebrate the day!

 

HYDRA is a big, evil organization, and one thing that all big, evil organizations love?

 

 _Free, unpaid workers._ No better way to keep the costs down.

 

So, for the last seventy years, the Asset has had a secondary purpose between its missions: work 20/7 in whichever base it was located at the time in the most nightmarish, unwanted, and demanding jobs: _the Customer Service._

 

* * *

 

 

“One black coffee, you little piece of shit, hop hop.”

 

Blank stare. One coffee put on the counter.

 

“Uh. Aren’t you afraid that it’s going to snap and kill you?”

 

“The Asset? Hah. Never. It was practically made for this. Just don’t ask it to smile. That’s some creepy shit I wish I could unsee.”

 

* * *

 

 

Steve Rogers faked 45 CVs and went to no less than twelve job interviews under no less than nine different fake IDs before Fury finally relented and employed him.

 

After three months working on document forgeries for the SHIELD, he is at the point where he can’t keep himself from jumping at anyone who even distantly resembled a supervisor passing his desk. To _beg._

 

It has become an automatic, desperate reaction, so once again, on Friday afternoon, he finds himself on the floor on his knees, begging the short red haired woman in a suit: “Please, please, I’ll do anything, absolutely anything, but _let me onto the field.”_

 

He can’t take another weekend home, spent knowing that all he had waiting for him on Monday was even more paperwork in the office.

 

She looks him up and down. “Okay.”

 

It takes a moment to register. “Seriously?”

 

“I have an undercover mission for you. You think you’ll be up for that?”

 

* * *

 

 

After the Asset has been hosed and its arm has been repaired after the mission, its handler shows it the front desk.

 

The Asset stands still and listens to its handler prattle off the instructions. It knows when to nod and say “yes, sir, of course, sir” and how to let this twenty-something with acne instruct it in a job that it has been doing _since the 50s._

 

The Asset doesn’t understand why its handlers always assume it doesn’t know how to use a cash register or brew coffee or check visitor IDs, when they are more than ready to shove it off onto missions with grenade launchers and time bombs.

 

It has done deep cover covert surveillance. It’s not going to fail differentiating between latte and espresso, for god’s sake.

 

Finally its handler leaves and the Asset sits down behind the desk.

 

It turns on the computer. The last time it worked at front desk as assistant, the nice lady it had worked with had showed it cat pictures and explained how it’s good for work performance to sneak in as many cat videos as possible during the work shift to keep the mood up.

 

The Asset had agreed readily. The access to the cat videos made the front desk job its new favourite.

 

* * *

 

 

Steve walks inside the mall. He follows Natasha’s instructions and waits until there’s nobody else entering the elevator. He goes in and presses the floor buttons in the sequence she gave him.

 

The elevator goes down, past the lowest floor that officially exists, and when the doors open again he steps out to the waiting room.

 

A man behind the front desk gives him a blank stare. He’s tall and so beefy that he has to weight at least twice as much as Steve, if not thrice.

 

Steve wonders if a resting murder face is the number one requirement for working the front desk in an evil lair like this. Probably. It’s very effective in setting the mood for sombre and chilling.

 

Steve tries to psych himself up. This is just like all those times he tried to get into the SHIELD. Except this time, he doesn’t even have to go through the interview.

 

“Welcome to the base, sir. Your identification, sir.” The man’s voice is toneless.

 

“Steven Grant. Uh. I was hired for that job opening in the canteen..?”

 

The man looks back to his computer and after some clicking around nods. “Fingerprint check required before the permission to enter, sir.” He points to a small device on top of the counter.

 

After the check and getting an employee ID card, Steve finally enters the secret HYDRA base.

 

The dishwasher cover won’t be glamorous, but finally he is on the field. He will wash as many dishes as he has to. He’s here to find out as much as he can of Project Winter Soldier for Natasha, and he’s not going to fail.

 

* * *

 

 

The Asset clicks back to the cat video tab, but the videos aren’t as satisfactory anymore.

 

It opens the base employee database and spends the next five minutes staring at Steven Grant’s picture.

 

After some cross-referencing and deep data digging, it finds videos from Steve Rogers’ facebook account (deleted three hours ago), and watches those instead.

 

There are even some with him  _and_ cats. This is the best day of the Asset's life.

 

After eight hours Steven Grant née Steve Rogers passes its desk again on his way out of the building.

 

After the elevator doors close behind him, the Asset opens the employee database again, hacks into supervisors' account, and edits its job placement to be on the canteen starting tomorrow.

 

Then it goes back to watching on repeat the video of Steve trying and failing to train a cat to jump through a loop for the rest of its twenty hour long shift.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha has a bunch of important intel on Winter Soldier for Steve.
> 
> The Asset attempts to break the ice with Steve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I _didn't_ mean to continue this one, this was meant to be left as a silly, little crack-shot, but you lot convinced me to write more with your sweet tempting comments so... I have no plans for this, I don't know where this is going to go, I guess I'll write more whenever I want a break from other projects and feel that it's time for a new dose of crack writing xP Let's see if we actually get to 100k of Customer Service!Asset one day lmao...

 

 

Before Steve’s first day in the undercover mission, Natasha gave Steve very clear instructions when she pulled him away from his desk and to ladies’ room for Steve’s secret mission briefing.

 

“Winter Soldier is a ghost story. He’s an assassin, with two dozen confirmed high profile kills over the last fifty years, and he’s the most valued weapon of the HYDRA. HYDRA must be keeping him well hidden away and you will not be able to find _him,_ so don’t even waste your time trying to. There are rumors that between the missions he’s being kept in cryostasis in a special bunker somewhere and fed only through intravenous infusion with the blood from his latest victims.”

 

“What the hell.”

 

Natasha looked grim. “I have an informant who has uncovered files hinting that he’s also possibly an experimental cross-species hybrid. Panther-Octopus-Velociraptor-Anaconda, to be precise.”

 

Steve opened his mouth to ask, because _Velociraptor,_ but he decided to at least try to be professional. “So, uh, what exactly does he look like then?”

 

“A white male, dark hair, around 6 feet tall.”

 

“But how is that possible, if he’s a cross-species hybrid..?”

 

Natasha looked at him like he was spectacularly slow. “Then _obviously_ he would need to have alien implants in his metal hand that let him transform, which is not only possible, but probable.”

 

“Metal arm?”

 

“Yes. That’s his most distinctive feature. But my point is: _d_ _o not try to find Winter Soldier._ One, you won’t be able to find him, and two, he’d eat you alive if you somehow against all the odds managed to find him.”

 

Steve’s mind was reeling and he kind of wanted to ask if Natasha was trolling him, but she looked extremely serious.

 

Also, she didn’t look like someone with enough sense of humor to troll anyone.

 

“So, uh, why are you sending me there then? If not to find him?”

 

“I want you to find anything you can _about him._ Get me any files that you think might have anything to do with him. Rumors. Possible names of his handlers.” She looked him up and down, and pursed her lips. “You’ll probably find nothing at all. Let’s see after a few months.”

 

“Few _months?”_

 

She glared at him. “You said that you were up for this undercover mission. Did you think that I would ask you for something nice and simple that would be over in one weekend? Did you think that undercover missions work like that?” Her face turned skeptical. “Perhaps you’re not the right choice for this mission then…”

 

Steve _had_ thought that this would be a quick job. In and out. “Of course not! I was surprised you want me to be there _only_ few months.” Why did he say that. He didn’t mean that.

 

Natasha looked pleased at his answer. “Well, as I said, we’ll check your progress after few months. If you’ve found nothing, you’ll obviously continue the mission as long as needed.”

 

“Obviously,” Steve answered faintly.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Okay, so they had not been _that_ clear instructions. Actually they had been very vague. And confusing, because what the hell, _part-Velociraptor?_

 

Anyway, they were his mission parameters, and Steve was going to take them, and prove himself as a capable agent.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Clint, I found _the perfect_ moron for the diversion mission. You won’t believe this when you hear it. I had so hard time keeping my face straight when I ‘briefed’ him. He’s just  _perfect._ HYDRA will spot him the second he gets in, and will let him stay because they will think that they can counterspy us through him.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Steve’s first day as the HYDRA’s secret base’s dishwasher went pretty unremarkably. As per Natasha’s instructions, he’s not to do any spying or other suspicious activities during his first few weeks, so the first day he basically went in, got introduced to the canteen’s dishwashing machine, and then spent the next eight hours filling it and emptying it on repeat.

 

It was even more boring than office work, but keeping the purpose of it all in his mind Steve was able to get through the day.

 

 

* * *

 

 

On Steve’s second day the man from the front desk is baking buns in the canteen kitchen when Steve arrives.

 

"Uh, hi," Steve says. "Didn't you work the front desk yesterday..?"

 

The man gives him a chilling, unblinking stare. "Yes."

 

"Huh. Uh. That's great!" Why the fuck did he say that. He _so_ didn’t mean that.

 

The man finally blinks once. Then the corners of his mouth turn up, slowly and twitchy like his face doesn't quite know what to do, like he’s some monster from a horror movie who is imitating being human. "Yes," he says while staring intensely at Steve.

 

Oh fuck. Oh fuck fuck fuck. Steve has a bad feeling about this. "Yes!" he exclaims brightly, his voice a couple octaves embarrassing high. "So! Dishes!"

 

They work in eerie silence next to each other. Steve can feel the man's eyes on him. He tries to not sweat.

 

The HYDRA suspects him. They've sent the Mr. Murder Beefcake from the front desk to keep an eye on him.

 

Smart and Sam-Wilson-Approved thing to do would be to make some excuse and get the hell out of here, but _Steve can't._ He's fought so damn hard to get his chance to prove himself as an agent. He's not going to give up at the first sign of trouble.

 

He’s only going to give up this mission over his dead body. 

 

He glances towards the Mr. Murder Beefcake. Mr. Murder Beefcake is kneeing the dough, smashing it in his hands, but his eyes are still set on Steve. Their eyes meet, and Steve breaks into cold sweat.

 

Steve makes a mental note to sit down and write his testament in the evening if he makes it through today, and then sends his sincere apologies to his ma, who must be rolling in her grave, and to Sam, who deserves a less idiotic best friend.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The canteen job is the Asset’s new favorite. It can watch Steve for hours.

 

Steve’s smile was beautiful in the videos, but it’s even more beautiful when it’s directed to the Asset. Even if it was twitchier than in the videos and disappeared disappointingly fast.

 

It keeps its eyes on him. It doesn’t want to miss it if Steve smiles again.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Fifteen minutes left on his shift Steve starts to believe that against all odds he’s going to make it through the day alive and uncaught.

 

Five minutes and twenty four seconds before his shift ends (not that Steve is obsessively checking the clock on the wall), the man speaks: “Have you tried the chicken necks?”

 

Steve’s eyes flicker between the man and the clock. Five minutes and thirteen seconds. He can make this. “Uh, chicken necks?”

 

“Yes.” The man is staring at him, his face betraying nothing of what’s going through in his mind. “For your cat. When you train it.”

 

Steve’s heart jumps. He has _not_ mentioned that he has a cat. Steven Grant does not have a cat, but _Steve Rogers_ does. “Uh-”

 

“They’re supposed to be cheap and tasty. And easy to snap into smaller bites for cat treats.” The man raises its hand and imitates snapping something small and fragile into pieces with his hand, like chicken necks or _(oh god, oh god, Steve’s going to faint)_ like _Steve’s thin and sickly neck._

 

“Thanks for the tip,” he says faintly. Two minutes and eleven seconds. He can do this. He’s not going to panic and give himself away.

 

The man’s lips turn and purse and twitch again into that horrific bastardization of a smile. “You’re welcome.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Steve gets home, hugs his cat, and then sits down to write his testament.

 

 

* * *

 

 

After Steve leaves for home, the Asset has still eleven more hours left of its shift.

 

It decides to surprise Steve tomorrow, so it places an order for twenty bags of chicken necks for tomorrow’s shipments to canteen.

 

Unfortunately, the central warehouse has only thirteen bags left. Oh well. It edits the order to be for thirteen bags of chicken necks, and then decides to put in the same order some chicken hearts as well.

 

It spends the rest of its shift in an odd anticipation for the next day. Maybe Steve would like its gift. Maybe tomorrow he would smile at it again.

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The millennials are a disappointment, even to the evil industry.
> 
> Steve receives a thoughtful gift.

 

 

“Who the fuck has ordered twenty-six bags of dried chicken parts from the central warehouse?”

 

 _Click. Click click._ “Uh. It looks like it was the Asset, sir.”

 

_“The Asset?”_

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“Never mind then.”

 

“...sir?”

 

“It’s malfunctioning again, or it’s craving dried up organs, or it has some creepy orders from the higher ups. Whichever it is, I don’t want to know.”

 

“But sir, if the Asset is malfunctioning then shouldn’t we go to check it..?”

 

“Are you kidding me? I’m not sending anyone anywhere near a possibly malfunctioning Asset. _Definitely_ _not_ after it was decided that covering the subordinates’ life insurances comes straight from immediate supervisors’ wallets. Fuck that shit. The management here is saving in all the wrong places.”

 

“Shouldn’t we at least report this to somewhere..?”

 

“Are you dumb? Wait, where the fuck were you when the Head of the Human Resources pulled everyone to the auditorium the last month?”

 

“I was on a vacation, sir.”

 

“Ah, right. Forgot we still have to give those to employees. See, _that’s_ where the management could be saving. Anyway, you missed the whole twenty minutes long speech about how they’re done receiving fifty to seventy daily _‘the Asset’s eyebrows twitched when it handed me lunch, it’s malfunctioning, please fix it before it kills me’_ complaints. Followed with all this spiel about how _‘millennial workers whine about everything and are a disappointment to the whole industry’,_ then fifteen minutes of yelling about how the Asset has worked in the bases longer than any of us, our parents, or some of our grandparents, and how the probability to be killed by the Asset working in the same base is only 0.01-15.8%, and how they don’t want to hear anything the next time someone pisses their pants because it looks at them a second too long.”

 

“But- What if _this time_ it actually _is_ malfunctioning?”

 

“Yeah, someone else did ask the HR boss that. The boss lost his mind and shot that person. I’m just saying -- _I_ don’t want to be the person who sends them the next unnecessary complaint. But if you want to be that poor bastard, then go ahead, but I ain’t coming to your funeral...”

 

“Uh no, sir, I’m sure it’s not that necessary.”

 

“Thought so. C’mon, let’s get this shipment to the canteen before the Asset’s shift starts. And then let’s _forget_ about it.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

After four hours of sleep, the Asset puts its sleeve on top of the metal arm (order: _’Keep the sleeve on when out of combat’),_ pulls its hair into a bun (can’t let hair into dough while baking), and then leaves its small quarters for the new twenty hour canteen shift.

 

When it arrives to the kitchen, a man is emptying and putting in place stuff from this morning’s shipments. As Asset walks in, the man pulls one of the bags with dried chicken necks from the box and stares at it.

 

The Asset walks up to him and stretches its hand out.

 

The man quickly drops the bag in its hand.

 

The Asset looks at the bag. It has thirty dried necks. The cat in Steve’s videos had been huge, and possibly had a superserum enchanted metabolism, but these should be enough even for it for the next few training sessions.

 

The man pulls two more bags of chicken necks out of the box. His eyes flicker between them and the Asset. “What- uh, what are these for?”

 

“To be eaten.” The Asset doesn’t want to say that they are to be eaten by Steve’s cat, unless the man asks it to clarify. This is a surprise. The man might go tell Steve if it told him.

 

The Asset opens the chicken neck bag and sniffs to check that the necks haven’t gone bad. Then it realizes that it doesn’t know what dried chicken necks gone bad smell like. These do smell bad, but not worse than some of the stuff the Asset is sometimes fed (it doesn’t get ill, so most of the expired food items are fed to it).

 

The man makes an odd noise. Then he holds out the two bags in his hands to the Asset, and smiles. His smile is twitchy, like Steve’s was yesterday, but unlike Steve’s, it’s not beautiful. “Riiight. Uh. I guess it’s your breakfast time, so go ahead and eat a few. I’ll... go have my first break. You know where to put everything?”

 

The Asset nods. The man leaves in a hurry.

 

The Asset looks down at the bag in its hand. It doesn’t want to eat any of Steve’s surprise, but an order is an order, and ‘a few’ means at least three. It takes one of the dried necks out and slowly bites into it. It crunches in its mouth, like crackers.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Steve walks into the kitchen, with a restless night behind him full of nightmares, and almost nopes out and turns back at the sight of the Mr. Murder Beefcake standing in the middle of the room, with a bag full of something disgusting in his hand and munching slowly one of those somethings.

 

“Morning!” Steve exclaims brightly (faintly) from the doorway, where he has frozen.

 

The man munches slowly and deliberately, his eyes intently on Steve. Finally it swallows and then its lips pull into that horrible, terrifying ‘smile’. “Morning.”

 

Steve’s poor, sick heart is not going to survive this job. “Morning,” he repeats stupidly, and then even more stupidly continues talking to the man: “What are you eating?”

 

The man doesn’t look away from Steve, but takes another something from the bag. “Chicken necks.” Then he starts to munch it.

 

Steve is one minute and seventeen seconds into his third shift in HYDRA base, and he regrets waking up this morning. Scratch that. He regrets ever approaching Natasha. He regrets joining the SHIELD. He regrets being born. “Are they good?” He regrets his non-existent brain-to-mouth filter.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Steve keeps asking it questions while it’s eating. The Asset has a faint memory of a stern woman called Ma, who was a giant and three times taller than the Asset, telling it to not talk with its mouth full. So the Asset chews obediently, swallows, and then answers to Steve: “No.” Then it steps forward and offers the bag for Steve. “They’re for you.”

 

Steve looks at the bag and mouths silently the words printed on its side: _“Organic Dried Chicken Necks. IMPORTANT: Reserved For Bosses’ White Fluffy Cats Kept For Dramatic Villain Moments.”_ Then Steve looks up to Asset. “Uh- what should I do with them? Do you want _me_ to eat them?”

 

The Asset looks Steve up and down. Steve is rather skinny. Maybe they would be good for him. “If you want to. They are for your cat.”

 

Steve looks like a little owl when he stares at the Asset and blinks like that. He’s so cute. “For my cat?”

 

“Yes. Thirteen bags of chicken necks and thirteen bags of chicken hearts.”

 

It’s slightly less cute when Steve imitates a salmon on the land, opening and closing his mouth like that and his eyes bulging. Steve looks at the opened box behind the Asset, where the bags lie. “I can’t carry them all home.” Steve winces. It looks like he bit his tongue.

 

The Asset’s eyebrows lower in a tiny frown. The Asset looks Steve up and down again. Now that it thinks about it, Steve doesn’t look very strong. “I can arrange a home delivery.”

 

“What- No, _no no no,_ it’s fine, I’ll take them home myself!”

 

The Asset remembers this one video from Steve’s deleted facebook account. It was filmed and posted by someone named Sam Wilson. In it Steve carried a huge box full of Christmas tree ornaments, yelled _‘I’ve got this!’,_ fell over, and bumped his head against the wall.

 

The Asset takes the box full of chicken parts and carries it over to the counter next to the dishwashing machine. It looks at Steve and smiles. “They can stay here. Take one back home every day.”

 

Steve smiles (it’s a very twitchy smile again). The Asset is in heaven. “That’s… That’s an excellent idea!”

 

 

* * *

 

 

The open box full of transparent plastic bags filled with chicken organs is right in Steve’s line of sight while he works, filling and emptying the dishwashing machine.

 

Positive thinking: Mr. Murder Beefcake isn’t going to murder him today. Not if he’s planning to make Steve stare at his ‘gifts’ for the next two weeks.

 

Realistic, panic-inducing, not-positive thinking: Oh god, _oh god,_ what’s going to happen after Steve has taken the last bag to home? Are the thirteen bags of chicken necks a metaphorical countdown for how much time Steve has left on Earth if he doesn’t make a run for his life? Is Mr. Murder Beefcake going to bring _Steve’s neck_ to his cat after the chicken necks run out, _as a home delivery?_

 

Steve checks the clock on the wall. He is eighteen minutes into his third day in the HYDRA base. In the corner of his eye he can see Mr. Murder Beefcake staring at him.

 

More positive thinking: At least the dishwashing job is no longer boring.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Tbh, I've got no clue what Steve's cat should be named. Taking in naming suggestions! Here's how I imagine him to look like: [(link to a huge ass silver tabby Maine Coon)](https://www.follownews.com/p/mpho). [Here's a link to my tumblr](https://stuckysituation.tumblr.com), or you can comment below, please help me x.x Thirteen bags of chicken necks for the best suggestion!)  
> 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve ditches the poor Asset for lunch.
> 
> The Asset worries about Steve's health.

 

 

For the past two days, Steve has eaten his lunch in the kitchen. The first day he was left alone, so it wasn’t an issue at all. The second day he _did_ consider taking his lunch box and going to eat in the dining hall -- because of Mr. Murder Beefcake and his constant staring -- but Steve stayed in the kitchen because eating surrounded by dozens of _other_ Hydra agents was even less tempting.

 

Of course, that was before Mr. Murder Beefcake dropped the bomb and revealed that he knew Steve’s real identity.

 

So, on his third day, three hours after receiving the chicken parts and after three hours of having them in his peripheral vision while working, Steve has re-evaluated the situation and decided to brave the canteen.

 

He desperately needs a break from Mr. Murder Beefcake. Also, he’s afraid that if he stays to eat in the kitchen, the man might decide to have fun with Steve and make him eat some of those disgusting chicken parts, for evil psychopath kicks and lols.

 

Steve takes his gloves off and wipes the sweat off his face with a paper towel. He has already used three rolls this morning, but pettily he’s happy about it -- it’s all straight from Hydra’s pocket.

 

Steve walks past Mr. Murder Beefcake to the fridge to get his lunch box. He can feel the man’s staring. Trying not to run, Steve leaves the kitchen through the swing doors between their part of the kitchens and the dining hall, and heads straight towards the table farthest away from the kitchens.

  


 

* * *

 

  


The Asset puts the baking bowl on the counter and goes to peek out of the door.

 

It watches as Steve goes to sit down at the corner table all alone.

 

The Asset is… disappointed. Confused. It doesn’t understand why Steve decided to go sit there instead of eating the lunch with the Asset in the kitchen again. It ponders for a moment about taking its own lunch and going to sit with Steve, but...

 

The Asset has listened to Steve’s erratic and rapid heartbeat the whole morning.

 

The Asset is worried. Steve’s heart doesn’t sound okay. Excessive sweating is not a good sign either.

 

Instead of following Steve, the Asset decides to check the kitchen’s first aid cabinet. It finds it sorely lacking.

 

Something must be done. Good thing that it’s time for the Asset’s eight minute lunch and toilet break.

 

It takes the protein shake out of the fridge, exits the kitchen through the door to the hallway, and slurps its lunch while running towards the medical facilities. Multitasking. It has no time to waste.

  


 

* * *

 

  


Steve hears shrieks from the hallway, but those are as common as expected in a secret, evil lair. His lunch break is only fifteen minutes, and he’s going to take all he can from it. Which means: eat his lunch, and play as many rounds of 2248 as he can.

 

_“Steve?”_

 

Steve’s heart jumps in his throat and he looks up. He doesn’t recognize the voice, and neither the face of a young woman with black hair, black mascara, black nails, and black lips. The woman is holding a trail and staring at him with disbelief.

 

Steve puts his phone down on the table. He only got to his second round of the game, dammit. Also: who the fuck is this. “Uh- Hi?”

 

The woman shakes her head and sits at the table. “You’re seriously the last person I would have ever expected to see here. Steve, what the fuck you working here for?”

 

This is not good. Steve looks around. Fortunately, the tables next to them are empty. “Uh, I’m sorry, but who are you?”

 

“It’s me, _Lydia._ C’mon, high school?”

 

Oh shit. It’s legit someone who knows who Steve is. Not that they ever were friends or anything, just classmates. Steve doesn’t know what to think about this. This is a serious blow to his cover.

 

Or well, it would be, if Mr. Murder Beefcake wasn't already making it clear that the Hydra was aware and suspicious of ‘Steven Grant’.

 

“Oh! Sorry, the whole--” Steve gestures at her total blackness, minus the blue uniform. “You’ve changed your… style.” The last time he saw her she was the living hippie stereotype.

 

Lydia pouts and stabs her lunch. “This place has killed my soul and spirit. The only reason I’m working here is because I got fucking pregnant at Prom night, then my dog got pregnant, and then the rats in my apartment block got pregnant and swarmed into my apartment and gnawed through all my electronics. The labor markets being what they are, my options were down to A, sacrifice my baby to the Satan, or B, join Hydra.”

 

Steve would have sacrificed the baby, the puppies, the dog, and himself before working for Hydra. But since saying that aloud would break his cover beyond repair, he can only said: “Aw, shit. That sucks.”

 

“That happens when there’s no proper social security system and school costs shit ton of money,” Lydia mutters. “I wanted to become a bee researcher. I was supposed to save the world. Instead what do I do? Dispose of bodies for Hydra.”

 

Steve’s smile becomes hard to keep intact. “Oh, really?”

 

Is she making subtle threats or not? Is she going to let Steve know that she is ready to dispose of his body if Mr. Murder Beefcake finds enough evidence against him and decides to snap his neck?

 

“Yeah,” she says with a sigh. Then her face brightens. “But at least it’s kinda a cool job, you know? Good ice breaker in Tinder. And I was able to replace my destroyed PlayStation with my first paycheck. I mean, things could be worse. At least we’re not working at McDonald’s.”

 

 

* * *

 

  


“Martin--”

 

_“Shhh!”_

 

“--why is the Asset--”

 

“Shut up! And get down before it sees you!”

 

“Oh, please. We’re behind a soundproofed wall, and that’s a one-way mirror. Martin, why is the Asset raiding our storeroom?!”

 

_“I don’t want to know.”_

 

“But it’s taking our ECG machine! We need it!”

 

_“Stop!_ Fucking hell man, _get back here!_ What do you think it would need that for?! It’s obviously for fine-tuned torture!"

 

“But we need that for this evening!”

 

“For fuck’s sake, we’ll order a new one and postpone the labs in R&D to tomorrow! Don’t go there, I’m serious!”

 

“But- but it’s peeing on the floor!”

 

“What? Oh. Oh _no._ Let’s… let’s call the cleaners when it has left.”

 

 

* * *

 

  


Steve stands up from the table. He’s not sure if his lunch break with Lydia was any better than his lunch break would have been in the kitchen with Mr. Murder Beefcake. Mr. Murder Beefcake at least doesn't even try to make excuses for himself or rationalize his job in Hydra -- he is a genuine bad guy, and clearly knows it and owns it.

 

That’s a lot easier to deal with than an old classmate going on ten minutes of rationalizing tangents on how it’s _obviously_ morally more right to work in Hydra than in tobacco industries, and how she is not  _that bad of a person._

 

“See you around,” Steve says to Lydia and tries to smile politely.

 

“Yeah, see you,” Lydia says with a smile. “I’m so glad I spotted you, Steve. It makes me relieved to know that even you have had to sacrifice your principles. Makes me feel better about myself."

 

“Yeah, well. Health insurances don’t mesh well with my illnesses, so… one has to do what one has to do to survive,” Steve says and wants to throw up. As if he would  _ever_ join Hydra.

 

Lydia nods eagerly at his validating words. “It’s a tough world. Idealism is dead, man. We all need to think about ourselves first. That’s what everyone else is doing, too.”

 

Steve nods and hurries away, not able to say anything more without breaking down and going into an hour long rant in a Hydra canteen to defend the morals, principles, idealism, and faith.

 

“You should come with me and the lads to the bar next Wednesday! It’s a karaoke night!” Lydia hollers after him.

  


 

* * *

 

  


The Asset is proud. In eight minutes it managed to get a good amount of medical supplies and bring them back to the kitchen. Good use of its lunch and toilet break.

 

Since its break ended, it has been putting away the stuff. _‘Clear away the shipments and put everything in place’_ is one part of kitchen duties. All the Asset needed was to get the supplies in time to the kitchen. Now putting them away in the first aid cabinet (and in the empty closet which Asset deemed as a proper place as well, since the first aid cabinet wasn’t able to hold everything) is all within the parameters of the normal shift duties.

 

By the time Steve returns from his lunch break, the Asset has filled the cabinets with needles, type O blood, disposable gloves, bandages, antiseptic creams, adrenaline, and painkillers, as well as various machines, monitors and devices.

 

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve's cover is 200% blown.
> 
> There are cats, and the Asset is happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter just grew and grew, but I didn't want to cut it in middle, so here you go -- 2,7k chapter for once! Don't get used to it; I'll try to get back to 1k-1,5k after this, because that's a nice, snack sized chapter to write&edit :D

 

 

After the lunch, Lydia returns with haste to crematorium.

 

However, instead of continuing her work, she goes to her coworker and says brightly: “Hey Jim, remember how you owe me?”

 

Jim gives her a suspicious look. He doesn’t say anything, which is not surprising since he doesn’t have his tongue anymore.

 

“I have to go see the boss. Cover for me?”

 

Jim rolls his eyes, but nods.

 

“Cheers!”

 

As Lydia leaves the crematorium, her withered conscience makes a feeble effort to poke at her. She could _not_ make a report on Steve. She could continue on her merry way like she never met and recognized him at all on the lunch break. She could continue her day like she didn’t remember the naive, headstrong man from high school who would eat his own liver before voluntarily joining Hydra.

 

She pushes her conscience away. Nah. A possibility for a promotion and pay raise is too tempting. Because reporting a probable spy in their midst? That has to be worth good money.

 

Sooner or later someone else would spot Steve anyway. Might as well report him herself. She’s only speeding up the process.

 

She hums smugly as she walks towards Henriksson’s office and daydreams about a nice, week long holiday to Spain, paid with her incoming raise.

  


 

* * *

 

  


Mr. Murder Beefcake is not baking buns when Steve gets back from his lunch break. He’s not anywhere close to his work station.

 

He’s closing the closet door next to the freezer door, and for the briefest millisecond Steve can see that the closet is full of… stuff. Something metallic glints, but Steve doesn’t have time to register more before door is shut.

 

Mr. Murder Beefcake stares silently at Steve. Steve had never thought it would be a welcoming sight, but honestly, after fifteen minutes of listening and nodding to Lydia’s _‘I’m not actually appomplice of evil, not like, really’_ talk, he’s happy to be back in the land of Ominous Silence.

 

For _one minute_ he’s going to hold onto his calm and not think about how Mr. Murder Beefcake has spent _his_ lunch break and what he has stocked up in the closet.

 

Steve knows that couple of days ago that closet was empty; he checked through all cabinets _and_ that closet when he was first time left alone. There had certainly not been anything metallic, not something that could have been a knife, or a saw, or a--

 

Okay, he managed fifteen seconds of not thinking about what’s in the closet. Hurray.

 

They work in silence. Steve’s thoughts are racing and he wonders when and how he’d be able to check what Mr. Murder Beefcake has been up to in Steve’s absence.

 

When the man takes his latest batch of buns to bring to canteen cafeteria, Steve ponders for a second if maybe now would be a good moment to do some snooping, but drops the idea fast. Mr. Murder Beefcake doesn’t usually take long before he gets back to start a new batch.

 

Steve has to wait for a better opportunity, to ensure that he doesn’t get caught. He’s a spy. He can do this.

  


 

* * *

 

  


The Asset carries the newest batch of pastries (this time sweet potato buns with parmesan sprinkled on top of them) to the canteen’s pastry display case. It pushes the new buns in. The display case is overflowing and there’s not a lot of room, but the Asset manages to fit the whole batch in. It takes some squeezing and the buns end up crumbled, but they are all in there, at least.

 

The cashier clears his throat.

 

The Asset gives him a glare. The cashier better stay away from Steve if he’s getting a cold.

 

The cashier seems to shrink a few inches. “Uh. We don’t need anymore buns today, okay?”

 

There are a couple of people out of sight and behind the counter nearby (the Asset can hear their heartbeats). One of them hisses: _“Phil!”_

 

The cashier swallows couple of times and then looks the Asset in the eye. He says shakily: “Soldier. Don’t bake more buns today.”

 

The Asset looks at the man. It can’t disobey the orders. Even though this man is not high up in the ranks, the Asset has to follow an order from him if it doesn’t contradict an order from someone higher up, or it doesn’t get canceled.

 

But… the Asset likes baking buns.

 

Fortunately, it has learnt during the past seventy years that if it looks at people for long enough, there’s a 50-50 chance that they take their order back. “Yes, sir,” it says and drawls the words as long as possible, eyes on the man.

 

The man starts to sweat. “I mean… it’s just… we don’t _need_ any more buns… honestly, we had to throw away so many already, because once people heard who was in baking duty--”

 

_“Phil!”_ the same voice as earlier hisses, and someone from behind the counter throws a shoe at the cashier.

 

The cashier winces as the shoe hits him in the ass. The Asset continues looking at the man.

 

The cashier wipes away the sweat on his forehead. He looks pale. The Asset thinks that the cashier should have eaten some of those buns instead of throwing them away; his blood sugar seems to be low. “You know what, bake as many buns as you want. It’s okay. They’re good buns. Go ahead. Bake whatever you want.”

 

_“You moron, Phil! It’s going to bake meat pie out of you now!”_

 

The Asset smiles and nods at the cashier. (The man makes a squeaky noise.) “Thank you.”

 

It returns to the kitchen in good mood. It likes baking buns. The dough feels nice in its hands. Before getting cat videos during the front desk duty, the baking job used to be the Asset’s favorite job.

 

Now the combination of Steve plus baking has switched the kitchen job back to the top of its favorite jobs, and it’s not gonna let anyone take either of them away from it.

  


 

* * *

 

  


Mister Henriksson is a chubby, old man, with white beard and bald head. His office is impressive, and there are three fluffy, white Persian cats lounging regally on his renaissance style couch.

 

Mister Henriksson is currently looking at Lydia very disappointedly from under his thick, white eyebrows. “Miss Howell. I expected better from you.”

 

The beautiful vision of promotion dims in Lydia’s mind at this unexpected response. “Uh, sorry sir, I don’t understand..?”

 

“Do you know how many times a week our employees attempt to throw one another to sharks?” Old man sighs. “Back in my days, there was loyalty among the thieves.”

 

Lydia fidgets nervously. She is 33% sure that Steve is not a genuine Hydra agent, but she knows better than to contradict Mister Henriksson aloud. “Sorry, sir.”

 

“This Steven Grant is a new employee. New people are always easy targets for those who’re looking for someone to step on to reach the next step on the corporate ladder. I’ve already received ten ‘urgent tips’ about him being a possibly spy. Frankly, I’m disappointed to receive the eleventh from _you,_ of all people.”

 

“Sorry, sir,” Lydia says. “I understand, sir.”

 

“Good. Now get out and stop wasting my time.”

  


 

* * *

 

  


As soon as Lydia Howell leaves the office, Mister Henriksson turns his laptop back on. One of his cats jumps off the couch, swaggers to him, and jumps onto his lap.

 

He scratches her behind her ear. His cats have an excellent sense for dramatic villain moments incoming and know when he needs one of them to pose in his lap for evil aesthetics.

 

Mister Henriksson didn’t lie when he said that he missed the old, honest days, but a man has to evolve and change with the world. In this day of ‘shark eats the shark’ climate, Mister Henriksson knows better than to let a petty blue collar worker get credit for catching a spy.

 

Mister Henriksson watches the Saturday’s security camera footage from kitchens (‘Steven Grant’s’ first work day). Grant has, indeed, all the ticks and signs of a fresh mole on his first assignment.

 

Now… The question is: what to do with him… what to do…

 

Mister Henriksson skips to the recording from Sunday. His thick eyebrows climb up and up as he watches _Winter Soldier_ now working there and staring intensely at Grant.

 

Mister Henriksson frowns and pauses the video. Did someone already order the Asset there to keep an eye on Grant?

 

Likely. Goddamn Halt -- Mister Henriksson’s frenemy, rival and colleague -- looked pretty smug about something during their morning conference. He must be the one behind this.

 

Well. Mister Henriksson has played the game of ping-pong orders over the Asset before with other handlers, supervisors, and bosses. The beauty of the Asset is that it’s a mindless pawn without its own agenda and always accepts new orders without questioning.

 

Mister Henriksson calls his secretary. “Go get the Asset to my office. Usual precautions on.”

  


 

* * *

 

  


Steve is busy plotting how to get Mr. Murder Beefcake out of the kitchen for long enough that Steve can make a thorough sweep through the kitchen, when two men in full tactical suits and rifles in their arms come in.

 

Steve freezes -- _oh shit, this is it, they’re here for me --_ but the men barely look at Steve.

 

“Boss required you,” one of the men says to Mr. Murder Beefcake. “Clean up and let’s go.”

 

Mr. Murder Beefcake nods, and without a question puts the baking bowl down onto the counter, takes his apron off, washes his dough covered hands, and then follows the men.

 

_Is he in trouble?_ a random worried thought pops in Steve’s mind, before he stomps on it. He’s _not_ worried for Mr. Murder Beefcake. He’s _happy_ if Mr. Murder Beefcake is in trouble and doesn’t come back to kitchen.

 

Also. _This_ is Steve’s opportunity.

 

Steve puts ten more dirty plates in the dishwasher, listens as hard as he can with his poor hearing in case the men and Mr. Murder Beefcake are returning, and then rushes to the closet.

  


 

* * *

 

  


Winter Soldier walks into the office. It’s escorted by two agents; a standard security measure for whenever the Asset is in the same room as anyone of importance.

 

It’s embarrassing how Mister Henriksson’s Persians immediately rush to circle around the Asset’s feet and brush against its legs. The Asset glances at them briefly, but otherwise it shows no reaction.

 

(The first time this happened Mister Henriksson had been highly confused and offended by the rude feline betrayal, until his secretary reminded him that _‘cats are assholes, sir, they always besiege out of spite those who show the least interest in them.’)_

 

(Still, if this wasn’t the Asset but a regular employee, Mister Henriksson would have him shot for being seemingly their favourite. They’re _Mister Henriksson’s_ cats, _goddammit!)_

 

(But well. This _is_ Winter Soldier, Hydra’s most valued asset. It’s not like it even understands what’s going on or the concept of jealousy over pets’ affections.)

 

“Good afternoon, Soldier,” Mister Henriksson says pleasantly and ignores the fond meows and purrs targeted to Soldier. “Status report.”

 

“Functional, sir. Ready to comply, sir.”

 

“Good, good.” Mister Henriksson looks at the agents and gestures towards the door. “Leave us alone”

 

The agents hesitate only a moment before they leave the office. It’s against protocols to leave a higher up alone with the Winter Soldier, but the last person who tried to disagree with such an order was promptly shot. Mister Henriksson is satisfied to see that the rumour of that incident has spread successfully.

 

Mister Henriksson rests his elbows on his table and leans forward. “Now, let’s talk about ‘Steven Grant’.”

  


 

* * *

 

  


‘Steven Grant’ is currently hyperventilating and gripping the door of the closet.

 

The closet is filled with _needles_ and _surgery knives_ and _bone saws_ and _plastic gloves_ and _anesthesia drugs,_ among other things _._ Steve knows that none of this was here when he started his undercover gig on Saturday.

 

This… this must be an evil joke. Mr. Murder Beefcake knew that Steve would check the closet.

 

But what if it’s not a joke, oh god, what if Mr. Murder Beefcake is getting prepared for something. What if he’s going to kill Steve, and chop him down to little pieces with surgery knives and bone saws for _his meat?_

 

Steve feels the blood leave his face. Thank god he has brought his own lunches to job, because it’s only now occurring to him that a) this _is_ an evil lair, b) Natasha said that Winter Soldier was fed its victim’s _blood,_ and c) _well then what happened to the_ meat _of Winter Soldier’s and Hydra's victims?_

 

Steve remembers the pork pie he saw on offer in canteen. His eyes snap to meat tenderizer on Mr. Murder Beefcake’s workstation.

 

Steve feels his lunch making its way up his throat and he has to rush to the toilet.

  


 

* * *

 

  


“--and if you see any sign of espionage, you report directly to me. Do you understand? You report directly to me, and only me.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“I prefer for Grant to stay alive for now, but use your discretion. If he shows signs of getting close to any classified information beyond level 3, eliminate him immediately.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“Good, good. Now, please take Snowball off your shoulder, and give her to me. Gently! Thank you. If you understand your orders, go back to your shift.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

Winter Soldier leaves the office. Mister Henriksson pets his cat, who looks mournfully after the murder machine.

 

“At least you girls don’t flock to the people on the wrong side,” Mister Henriksson mutters. “Now _that_ would be embarrassing.” He peers closely at Snowball. “What are you eating, girl? Did you break into the treat jar again?” Mister Henriksson chuckles and brushes away the crumbles of dried chicken from Snowball’s face. “Daddy’s smart little cat burglar, aw. I’m proud of you, little girl. ”

  


 

* * *

 

  


The Asset is... content. Steve spending the lunch away from the Asset was not good, but the rest of the day has went significantly better so far. The Asset got proper medical supplies for the kitchen for Steve, and it got to see the boss’s cats again.

 

It knows that the cats only jump on and brush against people or things they like (one youtuber said so). The Asset feels honoured that it’s still a thing that boss’s cats like. Its heart is feeling worryingly warm and big.

 

It wipes its hand against its trousers to clear the chicken neck crumbles, and reminds itself to order more cat treats for its own secret cat treat collection. It hopes it’ll be ordered soon back to the office so it can give the cats more treats. It likes the soft purr it gets when it does so.

 

If the Asset baked a cake for Steve, would Steve purr softly like that too? Humans don’t usually purr, but then again, Steve makes a lot of strange noises and squeals that the Asset hasn’t heard from anyone else.

 

But first, before it can get onto baking the cake and see if it can make Steve purr as beautifully as those cat did, it needs to do something important.

 

The Asset doesn’t like the idea of eliminating Steve, not at all, but it knows it has to follow the orders… unless it gets a counter order from someone higher up or at the same level than Henriksson.

 

The Asset takes out of its pocket a custom phone. It has a power of a high-end computer, and it’s been given to the Asset for mission work.

 

The Asset establish connection to Pierce’s setup, hacks its way through the security (it was there when the system was created, and it knows everything about it inside out -- the Asset likes technology, and it used to play around with the systems during its downtime on the tech support shifts), and takes remote control over Pierce’s personal computer.

 

It doesn’t take long to craft a message and send it through Hydra’s Instant Messenger app to Mister Halt.

 

_“Tell the Asset that all Henriksson’s orders from today to it are canceled. Don’t talk about this to anyone. Don’t give the Asset any new orders. -P.”_

 

The Asset waits for the confirmation, then deletes both messages from showing in the app, disconnects its remote access to Director’s computer, and puts its phone back into its pocket.

 

It likes the new technology, and not only because of cat videos. Nowadays there’s no need for the Asset to fake handwritings anymore (like in 50s and 60s, ugh), if its orders need… adjusting.

 

More time left for important things. Like getting back to Steve and baking a cake for him.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There hasn't been a ton of interactions between the Asset and Steve in last two chapters, because plot and naughty Hydra Agents with their dramas sneaked in, but I'll try to fix that in the next chapter! <3 :D
> 
> Also, my sincere, genuine thanks for all of you who have commented on this fic -- you guys and your enthusiasm have made me look forward to updating&sharing more of this silly story with all of you <3


End file.
